Coming Back To Us
by mangakittenclaws
Summary: Sherlock's been gone for three years, John is married and wants to learn how to move on. Post-Reichenbach.


**Sherlock story! Okay, if you read my other stuff, don't complain. I KNOW I'm slacking. I KNOW. After I wrote this with someone else, it just won't leave my head so I'm posting it here. Please review! **

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"Richard Brook?" Mary Watson echoed, quirking a brow at the well-dressed man standing at her doorstep. "And... you're said you're a friend of John's?"

"Yes." The man smiled at her charmingly and wiped some imaginary dust off his suit. "I've known him for quite a while; I'm surprised he hasn't mentioned me. Are you his wife?"

She nodded, her hand unconsciously falling to her small baby bump, just barely visible under her white blouse. "I'm Mary," she greeted, extending her other hand. "I'm afraid John's still at work, but he should be home in a little while. Would you like to come in...?"

"Oh, yes. Thank you." He grinned wider and walked in, his hands in his coat pocket, stroking the small vial in his coat with the pad of his thumb. He looked around; it was a nice house, decent size for a doctor and his new wife. "So, have you and John been together for long?"

"Just over a year now," Mary chimed happily, choosing to dismiss that he'd ignored her handshake. She followed him quietly in and showed him to the living room. "We got married last May..." The living room itself was warmly decorated with photographs of family members, friends, and one of the happy pair on their wedding day; a nice bouquet of flowers stood in a vase on one of the wall tables and just above that was a frame displaying John's medals of honor from the war. The petite blonde gestured to the sofa and smiled. "Would you like anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"Tea, please." He said pleasantly and turned to her, almost as if remembering her condition. "Unless, you need me to get it." He gestured towards her stomach.

"Hm?" Mary glanced down and laughed. "Oh, no, no, not a bother." She gave a dismissive wave of her hand before disappearing into the kitchen. "So, tell me about yourself, Mr. Brook. I'm afraid my husband doesn't go into much detail about his work, never has really." There was the clinking of glass as she began to prepare the tea, luckily having put the kettle on earlier for herself.

"I met John about a year after he came back to London." He said and walked over to the photographs, picking some up and glancing at them before he found the one he wanted. "I had heard a lot about him before though," he examined the picture "from other people that I worked with." He smirked and looked at the small dusty frame before rubbing the glass with the pad of his thumb. "He's quite incredible in his field."

"Brilliant doctor, he is," she agreed as she stirred one cup of tea before pouring another. "I'd put my life in his hands any day." Mary chuckled and walked back into the living room, tray in hand. "Sugar or milk, Mr. Brook?"

"Sugar, please." He said as he looked held the picture. "Does John talk about any of his other colleges?" He asked as finished wiping away the dust asked and sat down at a chair.

Mary spooned in a bit of sugar and stirred it before offering him his tea, carefully taking her seat across from him with a slight wince. "Not really, no. At least, nothing before he started working at the clinic, if that's what you mean," Mary answered with a sigh. "He rarely ever talks about it at all. But... he did have a rather rough time, you see, it's a bit... hard for him to talk about so I don't pry." She blinked, rubbing her temple. Oh dear, she was getting another one of her migraines.

"Ah yes," he said and frowned. "Must be hard... the death of a friend and all." He took his tea and sipped on it. "Surely, he's talked about him though." He looked towards the picture. It was an old Christmas picture, where John was in the center and Sherlock stood next to him, both of them with small smiles on their faces.

"A little, yes," Mary muttered, brows knitting together. "Good friends, they were. He helped me out once, actually. Well, _he_ did, the Holmes fellow, long before John or I moved to London or even met." Another smile pulled at the corners of her lips. "Funny how that works, isn't it?" Mary took in a sharp breath and continued to massage her temple. "Did you know him?"

"Yes," Jim smiled. "I knew him well. Strange that John hasn't told you more about him, they were easily the biggest part of each other's worlds." He saw he massage her temple again and frowned, grabbing her hand and holding it tenderly. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, well... his death had a large impact on poor John. Still has terrible nightmares sometimes..." Mary trailed off for a moment, jumping a bit as Jim reached to take her hand. "Sorry, I'm fine. Just... a little headache. Migraines, you see. Ehm, if you don't mind though, I will take a pain killer."

"Oh, I get migraines as well. Uh, if I may be so bold, I have a wonderful remedy that could help you." He said sincerely. "I've suffered from migraines for a long time. Trust me."

Mary raised a brow. "Oh, no, no, thank you though, dear," she murmured. "John prescribed me a special sort of pain killer. Safe for the little mite." She ran her hand along her stomach and cast Jim a warm smile. Reaching into her pocket, she removed a bottle and popped two white capsules into her hand. As soon as she had, the phone rang. "Ah." Mary frowned and set the pills down on the tray and stood. "Excuse me. That might be him calling now. Won't be long."

"Alright." Jim said and smiled, listening as she walked away. The second he could no longer hear her footsteps, he pulled the vial from his pocket and poured it into her tea. The molasses-like syrup dripped in and he stirred it quickly, hearing her coming back.

A few seconds passed and Mary's footfalls soon sounded loudly in the hallway. "Telemarketer," she sighed, shaking her head. "My apologies." She then returned to her chair and picked up the pills. "Terrible thing to have migraines," Mary commented, sounding more like she were sympathizing with him as she popped the capsules into her mouth and lifted her cup of tea, not even noticing that it was a slight shade darker.

He smiled, holding his breath as she emptied her cup and set it down in the saucer. "Yes... they are. But then..." he said, slowly "there are things that are so much worse." He saw her eyes begin to droop and finally grinned at her. "Like stupid and useless housewives."

Mary coughed a little, finding the painkillers unusually hard to swallow. "'M sorry?" she asked, clearing her throat. Her brows knit together as she studied his face; his warm smile melted into something a bit more sinister.

"No, no you're not." Jim said, crossing his legs before taking another sip of his tea. "But you will be."

She coughed a bit more and cleared her throat again, his voice was foggy in her brain and she couldn't make out any of the words. She clutched her chest "I'm sorry…" she panted, trying to breathe "seems they've gone down the-the wrong-" Mary sputtered and rose from her seat, probably planning on returning to the kitchen for a glass of water, but she swayed and was forced to stand still. "Wha..."

Jim grabbed her before she could hit the floor. "Shush, shush," He said and smiled down at her. "Just my special serum." He grinned and held up the emptied bottle. "You'll be fine, sweetheart," he said coldly, his voice no longer sweet. "I just don't want you to interfere when I finally get to see the good doctor again."

There was a tiny whimper and Mary's vision began to blur. "Who...?" Mary winced and her hand scrabbled for his sleeve as she felt her knees begin to give way out from under her, fading in and out of consciousness. As if on cue, there came the light click of the flat door opening. Mary tried to force herself to stand again, grabbing Jim's suit for support. "J-John...? J..." Her head reeled and she collapsed in Jim's arms.

Jim set her down on the floor. The serum was simple but fantastic, as far as any doctor could tell; she was dead and would stay that way for the next 24 hours. Jim smiled to himself; it was like right out of a Shakespeare play. He turned and stood up, waiting for John to come in and smiled.

"Sorry I'm late, love. Thought I'd stop buy the store since we're out of-" John froze as soon as he set foot into the living room and his face paled at the sight of Moriarty. He cursed and the plastic bag he'd been carrying hit the floor. "You..."

"Hello Johnny-boy. Happy to see me?" Jim smirked and plopped down in the chair. "Met your wife there," he nodded to Mary, picking up his tea cup. "Lovely lady."

John's eyes drifted to the unmoving form of his wife and he swore again. "Mary!" Without a seconds thought, he was stooping at her side, desperately tapping her cheekbones, trying to wake her up. His fingers slid to her wrist and his stomach twisted. No pulse. No pulse at all. "Mary... Mary, darling, Mary, oh God please, Mary, wake up..." The ex-soldier's jaw clenched and he looked up at Jim, too horrified at the moment to speak. This man was supposed to be dead, he _had_ to be dead. He committed suicide, bloody blew his brains out. This had to be another one of his nightmares, it had to be...

"She told me her head hurt..." Jim said sadly and shook his head. He stood up and pulled the curtain further open. "I just gave her something to make the pain go away." He smirked as he saw a strange glint from a building. "You might be a bit confused as to why I came here today, Johnny boy..." He turned to John and grinned. "Any ideas?"

He swallowed back a sore knot forming in his throat, lightly brushing back a strand of blonde hair from her paled face. John inhaled and stiffly stood, rage boiling in the pit of his stomach. "You're supposed to be dead," John growled out, ignoring Moriarty's question. "You- you died up on that rooftop."

"No, I shot myself on that rooftop." Jim rolled his eyes. "The two have nothing to do with each other." He smirked. "And now, I've come back to finish the game. I'm tired of sitting by and playing with the ordinary people again... and him," He nodded towards the picture. "I think he's tired too."

John clenched his fists, but didn't move from Mary's side as if he felt he could still protect her. His eyes flicked towards the only frame that had been moved, a fresh smudge evident across his old flatmate's face. Babbling, that's all Jim was doing, babbling, and playing with his mind. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you right now."

"Because he won't show up if you do." Jim smirked and sat down at the table at the table again. "You know Johnny boy, you haven't shed two tears for your pregnant wife but you still cry for him every weekend." He smiled and picked up the picture. "…He is so very important to you and me."

"Shut up," he hissed through gritted teeth. "Shut up, Moriarty." John's lips pressed together in a thin, tight line, holding back a whole string of obscenities; goodness knows though the madman deserved that and much more. He swallowed again and seemed to be struggling. "What-what the hell do you mean, 'show up'? Sherlock's dead. I saw him fall, watched him _die_." Images of Sherlock's terrible fall flashed through his mind, the hot coppery stench of blood returning to his senses. He flinched and glowered down at Jim, wanting nothing more than to snap his scrawny neck.

"You saw what he wanted you to see, John. You saw what he wanted _us_ to believe." He smiled. "You saw what you needed to see so that he could keep you safe." He pulled a small black USB from his pocket and tossed it at John. "I still don't know how he did it, but it was genius wasn't it?" He grinned nostalgically, remembering that day. "…Double fake suicides. You can't make this stuff up."

John easily caught the device and looked down at it then back up at Jim. "Double fake suicides..." he breathed, shaking his head. Sherlock was alive? His best friend, Sherlock Holmes was alive. For nearly three years he'd thought his flatmate were dead, made him go through countless nights tossing and turning, waking up in a cold sweat from traumatic night terrors, sent him through dozens of psychologists who all failed to bring him out of the depression and complete shock of seeing his best friend die. John shook his head in disbelief. "And... you're trying to drag him out, then? That's what this is about?" He worked his jaw for a moment, still shaking his head. "You didn't have to bring her in to this." John glanced at Mary. "She had nothing to do with this..."

"True," Jim shrugged "but she was boring and she talked too much." Jim waved him away and then grinned. "I sent him a sweet little message. I'm surprised he's not here yet... but maybe..." he frowned, almost as if thinking there was something wrong with his plan. "He didn't care about you as much as I thought."

"She was pregnant! Three months pregnant!" John yelled. It took all of his strength not to completely pull back and rail Jim, to completely beat him senseless, but he knew that would only make matters worse. And, if he knew anything at all about him, he knew Jim would never expose himself without having ample protection. He seethed. "If he is alive… I hope he doesn't come. I hope Sherlock stays well away from here."

"Still protecting him?" Jim said and raised an eyebrow. "He left you John. He let you fall into that depression." He sighed. "The first two years were lonely weren't they? Countless psychologists and everyone treating you like you were insane." He gave John a sympathetic look. "You still drink yourself sick on the day of his supposed death and cry in front of his tombstone, don't you? And you never moved more than a mile from 221B because you still haven't lost hope that he's going to come back, that he'll make that "one more miracle" happen. Am I wrong, John?"

John lifted his chin, doing his best to think clearly, to not let his emotions get the better of him. Oh, but how he felt like simply breaking down right there, sobbing and retching. Sherlock's supposed suicide had put the veteran through hell far worse than he ever felt he suffered through in Afghanistan. True, he'd seen far worse deaths, lost many friends in the war, but somehow he'd become desensitized to it all. It was war. It's what happened. Death for many a good soldier was inevitable. But Sherlock... His flatmate was never meant to die, not a brilliant man like him, not in that way. Yet now, Moriarty was telling him that it was all a trick; that Holmes had put him through all that torture for what John saw as nothing. Sherlock's stunt had caused him years of depression and agony, even his old limp had returned for a while, gradually lessening after his marriage, but now even that was gone.

Sherlock had, in one fell sweep, destroyed his life.

_No, no._ John closed his eyes and scrubbed his face. _No._ He couldn't let Moriarty do this to him, he was trying to turn him against Sherlock just as he had tried three years ago, fooling the world. "He had a good reason for what he did," John stated as evenly as he could. "He wouldn't get careless. Sherlock is- _was_ too smart for that. He had reason."

"Oh course he had a reason." Jim grinned. "We all have reasons John!" He paused and his grin widened. "And here's my reason right now." Even steps followed a loud click at the door and Jim turned his heads towards the entry as the footsteps got louder.

As the sound grew closer, John felt his heart skip a beat and he knew exactly what Jim's "reason" was going to be. Backing away, the doctor turned and bolted into the next room. His handgun, he had to get his handgun. He wouldn't let Moriarty live, not this time. He would make sure of that.

"Aww," Jim tsked as John retreated into the room. "You made him run away." He looked back towards the approaching figure. "Nice to see you again... Sherlock Holmes."

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**Ah, I feel much better now. So, I might just leave this as a one-shot, depending on the response I get. We wrote a bit more so review, if you'd like to see the rest! Hope you enjoyed it!**


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